Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Violence rises from every square meter as if from a metallic forest. During these days human reason appears like an insulating body, an impotent power. The city is an electro-magnetic field into which everyone wants to plug himself. It is no longer a place of habitation, but a being which resembles a runaway train. The most elementary fear of pain prevents me form participating in this battle. Kidnappings of passers-by and torture become daily events. Women stay at home more than ever. they consider war like an evening of scores between men. Violence is absorbed like a consumer product. I understood this need for violence one day in front of an electric wire torn from its socket. In the two holes there remained two little bits of brilliant copper wire which seemed to call out to me. And I wanted to touch them, to reunite them in my hand, to make that current pass through my body, and see what it was like to burn. I resisted only with an extraordinary effort.

Violence rises from every square meter as if from a metallic forest. During these days human reason appears like a n insulating body, an impotent power. The city is an electro-magnetic field into which everyone wants to plug himself. It is no longer a place of habitation, but a being which resembles a runaway train. The most elementary fear of pain prevents me form participating in this battle. Kidnappings of passers-by and torture become daily events. Women stay at home more than ever. they consider war like an evening of scores between men. Violence is absorbed like a consumer product. I understood this need for violence one day in front of an electric wire torn from its socket. In the two holes there remained two little bits of brilliant copper wire which seemed to call out to me. And I wanted to touch them, to reunite them in my hand, to make that current pass through my body, and see what it was like to burn. I resisted only with an extraordinary effort.

Isn't winter harsh? Aren't time and snow,rain and storms, too?But oh, how beautiful they areas they go away.

I didn't know that forgetfulness has legs,yet it comes and goes like an unruly horsewaiting for the bronze-colored rose to fallfrom the top of the branches.If the rose falls on the horse's back,the horse will fly away with it;if it falls between its legs,the horse will kick it.

O forest that has blossomed in my body,don't be afraid.I've hidden my soul in youor between two cracks as strong as armies(although armies don't know us and don't care).

Plunge your head into me,penetrate meuntil our bones almost intertwine.Let us be next to each other,interlaced like the heart's duality.Touch me as God would touch the clayand I will turn into a human being in a flash.

How can I escape, sweetheart,when my heart's fire runs in all directions,in speech and in silence,so that you may be born a million timesin ages of greater strangeness.O my blond forest, unite your fearand mine strongly;let your bones enter the tunnel of my bones,then pull the remainder of your body in and enter.There will be long, narrow passagesin front of you, and Truth lies in the narrowest.Take care and don't forget that you're going thereto scream,to reject,and not to bend.

Behold, the ghosts of the world are advancing,so hideand steal a look from the cracks of windowsor keyholes.Whenever a god passes, applaud himor climb on the edges of trucksand shout: the moon's blood is from his bloodand its flesh is from his fabric.But when will you comeso that I may tell you secretlywho the real god is?

The harsh rain was singing a military marchand shooting its bullets at the roots.(How were you born in the midst of that fight?)O God, command the valleyto take us to the original fountain,and the mountain to take us to the real summit.If the great darkness flees from the whipand Truth lies flat on the executioner's floorand the alphabet turns into unfair lawsand the poets turn into dust on the tables,I will fold up my time and hide it in my bosom.And if I see my shadow, I will think I am crawlingin order to gnaw on the dry bread of famine.But two feet of stone can't walk.

Behold, noon is like hard concreteand the spears of ice cut through the limbs.Souls that taste like bread are crunched by the air.A million women are your mother, my little one,and they untie the stringof the horizon for you so thatdeath may become temporary, like sleep.

Let us dig up the slaves and bondsmen,and let us bury the masters of hunger;and fountains have opened their white mouthand sent forth their tragic call.(How terrible giving up the soul is!)Yet the fountains leave geraniumand damascene roses in their trace.

What angry power is itthat tears out the fetuses from our wombs?Let that floodweave the bed of our loneliness.What will its beast do upon stumblingwhile the winter, like an eagle,beats it with its wings?In its body are millions of waves,a chronic eagerness for the earth,while the drowning marinerscome out of the gates of Time's waterwith a sharper vision,the lines of their ribs visible on their back,and they say:the forests that have entered the seawill bear leaves againbecause their heart does not die.

Thus, when Time locks its door to everyone,I will enter the train of death, pleased;I will hold the string of absence and pull it,and my imaginary self will come,my self that was born of the wombs of mirrorswith their frightening and obscure words.But frightened bodies secrete what will save them,and, behold, the door of peace opensbetween Paradise and the Earth.Life alone can take us away and return us.Death has perishedand worm have become extinct.The human stone is split so thatnew generations will be born.As for me,I will withhold the eggs of reproductionin my wombto live thus as virgins,so that spring may not be pressedby force into the spray of bullets.